


we will build our altar here

by brightlyburning



Series: Feral Forest Fuck God Dimitri [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Bondage, Knotting, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27321445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightlyburning/pseuds/brightlyburning
Summary: The god of the hunt stares Sylvain in the eyes. His proportions are subtly wrong: his limbs too long, his face too hollow, his shoulders too broad. His eye glitters deadly blue, neither amused nor irritated. About his shoulders rests a great black and white mantle of fur. His shaggy pale hair frames a strange face too beautiful to be human, the same terrible beauty of murderous things, a poison or a blade. Rising from his head in a crown, two great black stag's antlers branch and branch and branch again until Sylvain has to tear his gaze away or be caught in their endless net. One hand grips the shaft of a spear wet with blood. And yes, at the juncture of his powerful thighs, a thick cock that rises into the air, its head already shimmering damp in the light.Everything about him screams predator, power, superiority.(For FE3H Monsterfucking Week, prompts restraint, sacrifice, knotting, and aphrodisiac.)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Feral Forest Fuck God Dimitri [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014639
Comments: 18
Kudos: 214
Collections: FE3H Monsterfucking Weekend 2020, Horny Void





	we will build our altar here

There are worse ways to be sacrificed, but right now Sylvain can't think of any. The surly priests who serve the forest have placed him on top of a fallen stone wall, flat like a table, with metal rings sunk into the rock at each corner. The surface has some suspicious stains he barely got to see before Jeralt dragged his head back to face the silent forest and tied a collar about his neck, then hooked it somewhere else: one of the rings for his ankles, maybe? He certainly can't drop his head at all.

Then, ignoring his panted breaths, Byleth had bound him on hands and knees so he presented himself like an animal. Lastly, humiliation of humilation, Jeralt and Byleth had taken the sheer robe he'd been given away, leaving him exposed to the cold night air, and painted some shimmering oil across his nipples, fisted his cock with wet hands as he shivered, and ended with a disinterested probe of two fingers inside his ass, spreading the oil deeper and ignoring his choked cries. Then they'd left, silent as always, fading back into the forest and leaving Sylvain here with only a candle, a sacrifice to the dread forest king.

It's for Gautier. All of this is for Gautier and its people. The year's harvest has been even poorer than usual, and the people will need good hunting to survive the winter. Hah. They'll need fish to leap into their nets and deer to lie down in the town squares to even have a chance, and when his father's councilors started to mutter about the old gods, a Crest-bearer's sacrifice - not of life, but no one would say exactly what, had gone silent and still at the question - and Sylvain thought of the girls he'd been with, their families, and how they would go hollow-cheeked and pale and skeletal, and so. So he’d offered.

He rode south, past Fhirdiad, with an escort to keep him from fleeing, and into the great dark forest that the old gods claimed long ago. Sure, the Church of Seiros says there's no such thing, that the old gods are superstition and the talk of idle minds, but every patrol they ever sent into the forest returned in tatters or not at all, the forest winding in on itself, the water of its clear streams retreating from their lips and the great tree trunks impervious to their axes. A place not meant for men of any kind, and even the surly priest Jeralt and his eerie daughter Byleth lived there on sufferance of the god.

Speaking of the priests-

Sylvain shifts on the slab, swallowing against the rope collar when he tries to twist down to see. What in Aiell did they put on him? His cock, which should by all rights be shrinking from the chill, swells and throbs, lifts to rub against his quivering stomach, and his nipples, which he'd never paid much attention to, have stiffened, warmed, the brush of the night breeze across them a torment, skin begging for a rougher touch. And Saints, his hole - it burns with emptiness, flutters around nothing, and even clenching down only feeds the yawning ache, the need - he's never wanted anything there before and now it's all he can think about, all he desires. 

So this was what they meant by sacrifice. His body, his pleasure, maybe? They must want him to take some pleasure in this, if they've forced it upon him this way, painted all his sensitive spots in this damned oil. The need fogs his brain. The ropes scrape at his ankles, his wrists, but the red haze of it does nothing to dampen the terrible ache. There's nothing he can do with it; he's bound so he can't get a hand down to touch his cock, can't get his hips canted in any way that gets relief on his cock - he'd even rub off on the damn stone if he could. 

The tiny pathetic noises of lust bubble up out of him, uncontrolled and uncontrollable, and he'd be humiliated, should be humiliated, but the lust is overwhelming, drives out even the fear and the ache of the cold stone against his knees and palms. The empty clearing fills with the sounds of rope straining against metal, his moans, the terrible drip-drip-drip of his cock spilling precome against the stone beneath him. The candle flame flickers with each pointless twist and jerk of his body.

A branch snaps somewhere in the wood. 

Sylvain freezes. The cold air prickles across his sweat-damp spine, and Goddess, this oil, his cock should be shrinking with chill and terror and it isn't, damn the priests and damn their unguents. The wind tossing the branches above him freezes too, and the only sounds are his own panting, the mortifying sounds of his body.

A deep blue light glitters between the great tree trunks, six feet or so off the ground. It seems to swallow the meager light of the candle into the darkness at its heart, pull Sylvain into it too as it grows larger and larger, a terrible hunger burning in its depths. A silence falls upon the wood, and the silence lasts. 

A shadow breaks forth from the darkness of the trees. It holds no shape, of man or beast, but, no, wait-

The shadow shifts as it approaches, licking at the bottom of the sacrificial platform. A deer's head forms and melts, the powerful torso of a bear, an owl's outstretched wings, the sinuous curve of a snake.

Unwillingly, Sylvain's gaze follows the shadow's liquid edge to the form between the trees. Bare feet, seamed with scars, the shadow beasts lapping at them, that flow into tense calves, a broad chest, and above that:

The god of the hunt stares Sylvain in the eyes. His proportions are subtly wrong: his limbs too long, his face too hollow, his shoulders too broad. His eye glitters deadly blue, neither amused nor irritated. About his shoulders rests a great black and white mantle of fur. His shaggy pale hair frames a strange face too beautiful to be human, the same terrible beauty of murderous things, a poison or a blade. Rising from his head in a crown, two great black stag's antlers branch and branch and branch again until Sylvain has to tear his gaze away or be caught in their endless net. One hand grips the shaft of a spear wet with blood. And yes, at the juncture of his powerful thighs, a thick cock that rises into the air, its head already shimmering damp in the light.

Everything about him screams predator, power, superiority.

The god’s nostrils flare, and Sylvain, the idiot he is, bites back a cry of need. His hole aches, is so empty, and is he shaking with fear or arousal or both?

The god approaches. He makes no sound upon the forest floor. The wind stirs about him, carries a scent to Sylvain's senses: something earthy and rich and wild, something that makes Sylvain jerk against the bonds to try to get closer. The god's mouth twitches into a smirk as he halts before the platform where Sylvain is bound, gaze fixed on Sylvain's face. He lays his spear down onto the earth, and the grass dies beneath it.

"So," the god says, and his voice hums with tension and power, "you are my gift tonight." 

Sylvain whines. He cants his hips up high, straining against the ropes, and he shivers. His cock throbs.

"Pretty thing," the god muses, and he reaches out to rest one long finger on Sylvain's chin. A claw pricks at Sylvain's bottom lip. He sobs, can't help it, the knowledge of being touched like a blessing, and tilts his head to draw the god's finger into his mouth, suckles at it. Blood crackles across his tongue. He's lightheaded with it, all thoughts fled, his body only a vessel for need.

The god allows Sylvain to lavish his attention on his finger, even presses another - long and thick and brutal - inside his mouth, delves toward the back of his throat until tears sting at his eyes. "Look at you," he says, and the light in his eye flickers with something Sylvain can't name, hopes is matching need, "Byleth has prepared you well." He pulls his sopping fingers from Sylvain's mouth and only makes an amused sound deep in his chest at Sylvain's frantic whine. He taps his wet fingertips against Sylvain's cheekbone, too hard to be a caress, not quite a slap, and hums when Sylvain shudders, his cock leaping beneath him. 

Sylvain takes no notice. The god's cock rises in front of him; wet at the exposed head, thick and veined, with a strange fold at the base. His mouth waters. He fights the bonds but gets nowhere, his head jerked back into place by the rope collar. Goddess, this aphrodisiac - it's made him easy, a - a _slut_ for the god, but he wants it, needs it.

The god notices. Clawed fingers cup Sylvain's jaw, bite in with terrible strength that has Sylvain trembling with a fresh wave of arousal, angle his head up to meet that sharp face and dark eye. "Needy," the god says, low, and his hips roll forward, the slick head of his cock just grazing Sylvain's mouth before he retreats, leaving Sylvain to lick the precome off his lips and breathe, broken-hearted,

"Please, please, _please_ -"

The god's mouth twists into a hungry smile, as if he wants to devour Sylvain. "Pretty little thing," he says, "do you even know what you ask?"

" _Fuck_ me," Sylvain blurts, his eyes wet with the need of it, the frustration, "please- your cock, your hands, just - please, anything!"

"I will fill you," the god says, and he draws his hand away from Sylvain's face, drags his sharp claws over Sylvain's shoulder, down his back, as he circles the platform. His claws leave trails of goosebumps in their wake. 

Sylvain twists the other way now, back against the ropes, and the cruel tease of having that beautiful cock so close, the implicit promise, the unsated yawning emptiness, has him crying out into the dark, a high-pitched wail of pure need he should be embarrassed to make. If he strains, he just see the god behind him, the scarred hand spanning the small of his back.

"Oh," breathes the god, settling his hands onto the round of Sylvain's ass, "how sweet." And then, swift and certain, both hands smack against his skin, claws digging into the meat of him - Sylvain shudders, gasps out a curse that has the god chuckling darkly - before they squeeze and separate him. The god's great dark eye lowers, and Sylvain burns with mingled arousal and humiliation at the knowledge of just what he’s looking at: his hole, slick and glistening with oil, fluttering and clutching at empty air like a mouth or a cunt. Because that's what Sylvain is, what he's offered himself up as: a hole, to be fucked and filled and _used_.

There's a growl behind him, low and deep, that rumbles through the stone and into Sylvain's trembling hands, overpowers even the roar of his heart. A beast, pleased at the sacrifice offered to it. Claws prickle over his hipbones, the massive hands wrapping themselves about his waist, and yes, _yes_ -

The god’s cock, blood-warm, unyielding, presses up against him, and Sylvain’s whole body trembles with the promise of it. Then, the claws flex, dig in; the shadow of the god in front of Sylvain grows larger, limned in the shapes of beasts, crowned with thorns and antlers, and he pulls Sylvain back onto him.

The push of it, the wonderful deep _press_ of it, how he’s forced to stretch, how he’s caught and made to _take_ it, forces a wail out of Sylvain’s chest, one that grows and trembles and shakes with each inch the god fucks into him, fucks the breath out of him on a long gasp of “So full- ah-” His hands scrabble at the stone, his toes curl against it, find no purchase.

“Ah, that’s it,” the god says, his voice as warm and lush as the fur mantle that brushes Sylvain’s shoulders when the god bends low. Teeth, too sharp to be anything but a beast’s, scrape the back of his neck, leave him thrashing in their hold, before the god draws back and murmurs, “Your body is so deliciously _tight_.” At those words, Sylvain clenches even further, tries to writhe back against the rigid cock within him but gets nowhere, nothing - only a low laugh.

The god doesn’t move, and with Sylvain’s knees bound together, he can’t spread his thighs to relieve the painful need, the heavy weight of the cock within him. He feels full, his skin too small for his body, and he can’t do anything about it. He can only shiver, caught and pierced on the heavy insistent ache of the god’s cock, and struggle to roll his hips in tight circles, trying to get more stimulation on his rim. He’s whimpering, making wet little hitched gasps as he tries to fight the ropes. There’s tears on his cheeks, the forest blurred by them, and he’d cry, he’d beg again if it’d just get his lover to do _something_.  
  
The god lets him writhe, lets him hitch his hips back against him like a whore, his claws flexing and easy on Sylvain’s waist. “Not enough, is it?” he whispers against Sylvain’s ear, his tongue - too _hot_ \- flicking out against the edge of it. His teeth catch at Sylvain’s earlobe, threaten to close, and he rumbles a laugh when the implication makes Sylvain tighten even further - if there’s any more he can clench, spread and held as wide as he is.

“No,” Sylvain manages, voice thick, and the god makes a low sound, drags lips and teeth and too-hot, too-rough tongue over the back of his neck, where sweat has slicked his hair to his skin. One hand lifts from his waist, slips up to curl loosely about the front of Sylvain’s neck, more threat than anything else, but oh-

“Very well,” the god says. His other hand steals beneath Sylvain to wrap around Sylvain’s cock, and Sylvain chokes on a wail, the sudden bright shock of pleasure too great. His arms threaten to buckle, but the god has him, caught between hand and cock, and then. Oh, and _then_.

The god rolls his hips back, and Sylvain had gotten used to his cock, the pressure of it. He’s not at all used to the slide of the god’s cock within him, thick and dragging, practically pulling Sylvain along with it. His body clutches at his cock as he pulls out most of the way, and Sylvain can’t keep the broken sob from breaking free, from vibrating against the god’s hand about his neck. Then the god pushes back in, inexorable, tidal, shoves the breath from his lungs and his cock into the god’s hand, and the first drops of come spill from him. His balls ache, tight and swinging as the god’s thrust rocks him.

“Beautiful,” his lover says, and then he _fucks_ Sylvain, deep and hard. His pace is relentless, bestial, brutal. He plunders Sylvain’s body, forces him to writhe in his bonds with the sheer force, and the pleasure and the pain of it, of being taken so ferociously, melds into one bright shining thing that makes Sylvain howl. The clearing is full of the pounding of their bodies together, Sylvain’s cries, the god’s growls. The god’s breath stirs Sylvain’s hair, his teeth scrape great tingling marks into the back of his neck-

“Going to-” Sylvain manages, and then all the tension coiled in him explodes down through his body, through his cock, empties itself in the great spill of come across the stone. It’s violent, ripped from his body, not the easy languid thing he prefers; this has him thrashing and bucking into the solid warm wall of the god, gasping nonsense sounds with each spurt.

The god doesn’t stop. Instead he slices the collar about Sylvain’s neck with one clawed finger, than uses the newfound freedom to coil his hand in Sylvain’s hair, force him to arch his back like he’s easy. He is, if the filthy slick sounds of their bodies meeting have anything to say about it, but that’s all Sylvain manages to think before the new angle forces the god’s cock to drag across his prostate and he screams.

“Ah, there you go, my lovely thing.” The god holds him down, holds him still, and now his thrusts shift, become slow, luxurious, grinding things that work at Sylvain’s prostate, that tip him right over into another climax, waves of _relief_ rippling up and down his spine. He’s a doll, a thing to be fucked, used for the god’s pleasure.

Sylvain moans, his voice raspy. He’s sweaty, sticky, filthy, and yet-

The god’s nips and scraping teeth shift into languid kisses dropped on his shoulders. He takes no notice of Sylvain’s trembling, the appalling weakness in his limbs from overstimulation. And still, somehow, Sylvain’s body wants more; his rim aches, trembles where it’s stretched about that stiff cock, and his hips rock in shuddering circles back into the god’s thrusts.

“Please,” he mumbles, but does he want more, or less? Every inch of skin feels tight, oversensitive. The slow thrusts bite at his delicate hole - he can imagine what he looks like back there, all red cheeks and puffy hole, slick with oil, _used_. Animal.

He feels raw, nothing but need and exhaustion, and he shivers anew when the god presses another kiss to the back of his neck. 

“Yes,” says the god, and now there’s something new in his voice, a possessiveness that wasn’t there before. His hands slip back down to curl about Sylvain’s hips, mark new bruises and pinpricks of blood into his abdomen, but even now it all registers as pleasure. He pushes in further, pushes in until he’s flush with Sylvain, until all Sylvain can do is choke out a whimper around the inescapable wave of sensation. The god isn’t aiming for Sylvain’s prostate, isn’t really focused on Sylvain’s pleasure at all, but he’s so thick and hot that any twitch, any shift, makes Sylvain flutter and clench about him, forces more overwhelmed tears from Sylvain’s eyes. This fuck, this time, is for the god alone; he grinds into Sylvain slow and long, and the terrible strength of his hands pulls Sylvain back onto his cock, handles him like a toy, something to be moved at his whim, for his pleasure.

The god’s growling, Sylvain notices dimly, chanting something in a voice that sounds like the forest itself - earth and wind and stone - and every hair on his body stands on end. The treetops toss in the sudden wind. Through blurred eyes Sylvain finally spots the many reflective eyes in the darkness around them, watching them, the forest knowing its master.

Wait. The god’s cock is swelling inside him, and _oh_ , that’s what those folds at the base were - for a _knot_ , another sign of the beast-

He falls onto his forearms, lets his cheek press to the cool stone, and then the god curls a hand over the back of his neck, pinning him. As though he’d run, as though he can do anything but lie here and sob for breath as the knot tugs and presses and works him wide, makes him gape, makes him orgasm dry, body milking at the god’s knot and cock, demanding. Everything between his legs aches, overused, oversensitive, and somehow _still_ he’s coming-

He can’t stop making noise, one long noise, a raspy cry of pleasure and pain intermingled that scrapes his throat raw, and the god’s chanting overtakes it. Then, loud, a voice that could command armies, snarling:

_“The contract is sealed.”_

Warmth spills inside Sylvain, and the last thing he remembers, through the tearing brutal pleasure of a final orgasm being ripped from him, is the grinding drag and filthy noises of the god fucking his own come deep into Sylvain’s body.

* * *

Sylvain wakes to dawn light on his face and the gentle tugging of fingers at his bonds. Goddess, he aches, from his head to his feet, and a part of him, feeling the slippery come caught between his cheeks, the deep stretched ache of his hole, gives serious consideration to staying asleep.

The slim fingers pause, then dart down beneath his balls, and at that Sylvain startles with a yelp, eyes flying open. He manages to do precisely nothing, only smacks his hands against the stone and then falls back on a moan, overexerted muscles protesting any movement.

Byleth, the priest’s daughter, only tilts her head at him and continues to work her hand beneath him. Her brow quirks when she feels the come, arches further when she slips one finger within his hole.

“He came in you,” she says in her quiet way, and pulls her finger free. 

“Yes,” Sylvain manages, his voice hoarse. 

At the sound of his voice, Byleth turns, leans down from the slab, and sits back up, holding a drinking horn of honeyed tea. She offers it to him, and watches Sylvain drink it with unnerving consideration.

Sylvain wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks.” Strange examination aside, she did bring him something to ease his throat, and that counts for something.

“He must have wanted you,” is all Byleth says. “More than most.”

Sylvain blinks. “Does that mean the sacrifice worked?”

For the first time, she cracks a tiny smile. “Yes.” Then, before Sylvain can ask for a robe, or more drink or food, she continues, “Dimitri requests to have you again soon.”

Well. There are worse ways to be sacrificed.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, bookmarks, and criticism are adored. Follow me on Twitter at 'carthageburning' if you'd like!


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